Monday, June 19, 2017

Louie Louie and Jaws (Pazz & Jop essay)

Robert Christgau picked my 2004 Pazz & Jop comments as the lead essay, after his, for the Village Voice's Pazz issue that year. They've since disappeared from the interwebs. So voila!"'Louie Louie' and Jaws"

My
most shocking musical moment of 2004 came at the end of Todd Snider's "The
Ballad of the Kingsmen." "I'm not trying to preach to ya,"
preaches Snider, and his recitative is stilted here, self-satisfied there. Evil
music from "Louie Louie" to the collected works of Marilyn Manson and
Eminem doesn't cause evildoing, it seems. But then Snider cuts the sermon off
and croons a message to the kids courtesy of that famous perv Marvin Gaye (and
don't think Snider chose his inspiration arbitrarily): "Let's get it
on." And in that moment, he turns his sermon on its head. For if Snider
could inspire the youth of America to start fucking, maybe he could inspire
them to go on a shooting spree in high schools here or Iraq over there, end of
song. And it's because Jack Ely jumbled the lyrics to "Louie Louie"
in his jaw that anyone can bend it to their own agenda, even the FBI.

Kanye
West managed to enunciate with his jaw wired shut. He needs clarity because The
College Dropout is gospel music for the here and now consumer culture. West is
here to remind us that in Dick Cheney's America, transcendence can only be had
through money. Now that he's finally got some, the hyped-up Chaka and Luther
samples testify to his giddiness as the Sunday morning choirs do to his thankfulness.
And both will power our attempts to grab a little bit of that same kind of
freedom. But unless you're Bill Gates and a few other lucky fuckers,
transcendence is not eternal in this world. When the hits start drying up,
Rocafella will remember the time when West was courting Capitol and proceed to
kick him unceremoniously to the curb. That's why West asks Jesus to walk with
him. Me, I don't have Jesus. I have this record. Around the time it came out, I
learned that I'd been accepted as a PhD candidate at UT-Austin. You bet I was
giddy and thankful. But I'm also terrified at the gamble. Sure, I have a better
shot at freedom than the Gap workers of The College Dropout. But there's never
any guarantee and not since Livin' Joy's "Don't Stop Movin'" have I heard
such a thrilling articulation that hard work and brains (even genius) may not
pay off.

Most
of us try to make the gamble pay off by keeping the stakes low. Not Stephen
Foster, who lost big time. Foster was stretching democracy to its limits in
fancying himself a songwriter. If Beautiful Dreamer: The Songs of Stephen
Foster were a testament to that spirit, it would have included contributions
from Gino Washington and Biz Markie, Boy George and Iggy Stooge, Courtney Love
and Axl Rose. Instead, Foster's anti-crybaby "No One To Love" could
almost be conceived as an attack on the sensitive singer-songwriters assembled
to reupholster his glory - Ron Sexsmith and David Ball, Beth Nielsen Chapman
and Grey DeLisle, Raul Malo and Judith Edelman. But the utter safeness of these
artists lends a mild yet undeniable drama to Foster's gorgeous melodies. This
is an album for those of us who don't spend our lives grabbing at
transcendence. It imbues playin' it safe with a sense of wonder and excitement
indie whiners couldn't even begin to imagine.

Outside
the US, nothing represented transcendence better than the funk carioca that hit
these shores in 2004. From here, the snippet of "Louie Louie" heard
on "Pique Ta" only deepened the winning chaos of . But a Brazilian
friend tells me "favela" means "slum" and it’s my hope that
the inexhaustible beats and rainbow samples lifted dancers up out of there,
spiritually if not literally the Rio Baile Funk: Favela Booty Beats
compilation. And for MIA, favela funk is literally a matter of life and death.
Diplo sprinkles bits of the stuff in between her tracks on Piracy Funds
Terrorism Volume 1 and it plays like a frightening extension of the pain of
Claudine Clark's "Party Lights." Because here, mom has been replaced
by a bank of faceless terrorists.